


Like Something

by TheBigSnail



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Bromance, Canon Compliant, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Panic Attacks, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22610893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBigSnail/pseuds/TheBigSnail
Summary: But that’s why he avoided it for such an impractically long time, isn’t it?His feet were lodged to the algid dirt, and a rebellious tear slid forcing its way down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another, until there was no use in wiping them away because this anguish wasn’t going to just cease to exist like so many other things in his life.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	Like Something

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me while enduring a random bout of strep-throat, so I’ve spent the last couple days writing this instead of doing my wonderfully boring homework. Such is life.
> 
> Just so you are aware this is not written in linear order so don’t be confused if it seems to skip around a ton ;)
> 
> Harry’s brain isn’t mine, but I still love messing with it.

Awake. Again.

Every passing of an hour seemed to bring forth an evolution of unwanted restlessness. It left his sluggish mind to wander blankly at the dark ceiling as a small sliver of gray light slowly creeped along above him. He shifted his head to gaze at the source of the light. A gap in the drapes. 

It annoyed him, that small imperfection where the two ends of the curtains didn’t meet.

He rolled over wishing to avoid further thought on the increasingly brighter beam of light above him and found a new, cooler spot to lay his leg. His face dug into the plush of the pillow before nodding off once again. 

* * *

When he heard the soft rap of knuckles against hard mahogany moments before, he grimaced distastefully.  _ Why must he always have company? Was a day of rest not but a virtue? _

There was a  _ clunk _ followed by a low grinding noise that echoed through the entryway as he forcefully hauled the door open from its rusty hinges. Standing in the doorway was a familiar smiling face. His gut twisted uneasily as he stared at the twinkling eyes and mussed ginger hair of the man in front of him. He should be chuffed about seeing him today, but it rather caused sweatily clenched hands and a rising lump in his throat. He wished he knew why.

  
  
  


_He was sitting in a train, seat rocking with the sway of the compartment, glasses newly repaired and a pile of sweets rested to his left — he was happy. His first friend_ ever, _now_ _smirked easily in front of him eyeing the large mountain of treats gleefully._

  
  


_ The arms around him tightened, and after a month of ignoring one another in the corridors and throwing pins at each other’s heads, he was okay with foregoing manliness and breathing in the fact that  _ he  _ was back.  _ He _ still cared enough to come back, to believe him.  _

  
  


_ They both sat on his four-poster. It was silent but not uncomfortably so, just  _ full _. His shoulder hardly brushed the boy’s beside him but there was no intention of moving it. Harry needed him there whether he felt like a git or not. He always seemed to know when he needed this. “Leaving school, going on the hunt, it will be hard. But Harry, I’m not gonna leave and we will do this together. Remember that.” He felt a large hand squeeze his shoulder reassuringly but didn’t dare look up. _

  
  
  


His brain reminded him in one fleeting flash what this person in front of him signified, recapturing what it meant to have the same boy standing next to him for the last seven years. He gulped a breath, hoping he wouldn’t be construed too heavily for it and attempted a grin, shoving his sweaty palms in his pockets.  _ No need to worry. _

“Hello.”

“Hiya, Harry.”

* * *

The mug was almost uncomfortably hot in his hands. He shifted his grip as his fingertips tingled.

The house was excruciatingly quiet, harshly quiescent. He strained his ears to hear something, anything to reawaken the senses. The house wasn’t supposed to be like this nor were the people residing in it. The rising sun glared through the smudged window, mocking his morose mood as it promised for a fair day.  _ Today is not the day for sun _ . 

Startling, suddenly aware of the rumbling of feet descending the stairs behind him, he cursed himself for his latency and set his shoulders. It was no time to appear out-of-sorts, not with all of  _ them _ ostensibly ready to splinter at any moment.

He readied his throng of excuses needed to explain away his reasons for abruptly now being an early-bird. 

* * *

The sun had ducked behind the horizon while he watched her sit comfortably in Arthur’s armchair by the crackling fire. The flickering light made her appear just as if she was in the common room reading for what she weighed, a much more grueling task  _ — _ homework. He would have felt substantially more content if not for the book grasped in her hands that screamed to him  _ run away _ . This was not something he wanted to participate in even if he should “most definitely consider it,” as she had reprimanded hours before.

The hardback tome she held in her left hand, right fingers posed to turn the page after rigorous dissection, read in strikingly pronounced letters across the front  _ All You Need to Know About Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and How to Help Sufferers.  _

She was biting the inside of her lip, a crease of disquietude along her brow.

It made his stomach churn. 

Forgoing the task of waiting in tense silence, he feigned tingling legs from sitting persistently on the unsympathetic flooring and hurried out of the smothering room. He knew she cared, but the attention on this delicate subject was not one he wanted investigated further. There were far more important jobs to be done then to renew his dilapidated mental state.

* * *

Blue sky welcomed him as he stepped out into the sun for the first time in days. Rays of warmth filled him in a way he hadn’t felt in what must have been an eternity. This was good. Though his face muscles hadn’t moved in such a way for far too long, he smiled. 

Making his way to the broom shed to pick his chosen stead for the game, his heart prickled marginally at the loss of his firebolt. But today was a  _ good _ day he reminded himself. He glanced behind him, everyone was joining in on the sun this afternoon. Tugging at the unyielding rotten handle of the door, he kicked it, forcing the aged wood to throw open with a snap. 

There lying painfully front and center, were the twins’ brooms. 

As if a hammer had been plunged into his diaphragm, he lost all ability to breathe. He  _ forgot.  _ A cloud passed over the sun, throwing each corner of the shed into dusky obscurity. 

He shut his eyes rapidly, praying for the overwhelming, excruciating ache of loss to pass as his gut plummeted remembering the one person not with them. He reached out to stroke the handle of said person’s broom, fingers throbbing at the thought of who last held the splintering wood. 

He couldn’t do this,  _ not today _ .

* * *

Sealing the fresh parchment of the envelope, his eyes tracked the room for her cage, then abruptly stilted. A hollow hole deep in his chest threatened to envelop him once again as he realised his atrocious mistake. The empty metal home of his beloved pet bored into his skull, paralyzing him in his seat.

_ It was a bird. Just a bird. _

The parchment quivering in his hand and eyes burning dismayingly, he choked on his mindlessness. 

* * *

_ Screaming, screaming, screaming — it tore a hole through his insides, there was nothing he could do for her until the rat came down giving them passage out. He was murdered by his own silver glove.  _

_ Pitch blackness — green — red — sunlight; the monster fell to its knees. Mutley he processed there was cheering and arms wrapped around him, but why? He had just killed a man.  _

_ Pain, oh so much pain. Was he really walking out? The tent was closing in on him, the thunder pounding at his ears. He couldn’t  _ breathe _. _

_ Her long red hair crumpled along with his heart as she was struck with that noxious green light. Why must her innocent life be snuffed out so quickly while he stood healthy and alive but a hundred yards away? She  _ could not _ be dead. The world was breaking into pieces. _

_ The marble walls were cold, the corridors so quiet one could hear a pin drop, and he was walking to his death. He was terrified. Would they miss him? _

_ He could scarcely feel his fingertips. The woods seemed to stretch on in eternal blackness, the dimming fire producing no valid warmth. The metal chain around his neck whispered evil nothings into his frozen ears. He was starving them all to death with this pointless game of hide-and-seek. _

_ Covered in rubble and dust, broken wands at their sides, they laid dead. His best friends. Grime, tear tracks, and  _ blood _ , covered their marred faces. Never to see the light of day again because of his own stupidity. He vomited violently, back hitching, neck poppingly sick.  _

He woke shuddering, gagging. Someone was holding him tightly, he could feel the muscles clenching around him carefully release. Precipitously, he realized the wetness on his cheeks were tears, not blood.

“Thank Merlin. You’re awake.” The person sighed. The tone wasn’t condescending, but one filled with great relief. “I was starting to wonder if I would have to hex you.” He felt more than heard the low chuckle from the person sitting behind him as their chest rumbled against his back  _ —  _ his best friend. He felt the cold steel of his glasses as they were placed in his hand. 

The tension in his shoulders released feebly, and trembling, he shifted so he was situated next to the other man. Scrubbing at his face, a calloused hand rested on his neck. He could feel the concern radiating off of the man next to him. 

“We’re okay, Harry. Just breathe.” 

_ They were all alive and breathing and here. _

* * *

His breathing was quickening rapidly, promising for hyperventilation to come next as his heart pounded through his chest, panic flowing in his very viens. 

_ He couldn’t stay here.  _

Pretending the empty ghost of a chair wasn’t glaring at him was quite impossible when it was silently screaming it's terrible loss from across the table. The room was stiflingly silent for having such a numerous number of occupants. It was almost as if all the air had been vacuumed from the room. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t  _ breathe. _

It was his eighteenth birthday but also marked the first day since the end of the war that everyone was sitting down together for a meal. 

Internally, he desperately pleaded for the cake to be served so he could run away. Where? He had no idea, but any place was better than this table. His fork picked at the salted green beans lying limp on his plate as his leg bounced hysterically. He just needed to calm down  _ — it's just an empty chair.  _

Abruptly yanked from the wild buzz encasing his head, he felt her slight freckled hand worming its way down his arm, clasping his own sweaty palm and squeezing reassuringly. He squeezed back, thanking whoever was listening for this woman who was beyond mindful of his anxieties.

He forced a lungful of air down his throat and exhaled heavily. Nobody was blaming him for anything, least of all an empty chair. He squeezed her hand again.

* * *

  
A late Autumn gust swarmed around him, nipping his nose and twisting the tail-end of his cloak around his ankles. He huffed, disgruntled at the dreary weather and even more displeased with his macabre reflections of the stormy world he was forced to abide in. 

He missed it, the days when laughing wasn’t so foreign and smiles came in abundance. He also missed the sun dreadfully, when it’s golden rays were out, warming the earth, making life easier to live.

He could not for the life of him remember when he last laughed, but the reality was, he genuinely could not care less. 

His booted feet carved a path through the layers of dead leaves around the gray paddock. He was wandering along aimlessly out in the cold for no other reason then the house made him practically asthmatic for how stuffy with emotion and people it was. So here he was, “getting some air” and enjoying none of it. 

Glancing up, he noticed he had come upon a dinky little pond, one he recalled being told about years ago but never witnessed. 

  
  


_ “You know, Harry, we could go swimming if you wanna, later after lunch. Like a mile from our house is a cool little pond and I used to go swimming there all the time. We could invite the twins and, well, everybody! What’d ya say?” He nodded at his taller, red-headed friend enthusiastically, he had never gone swimming before.  _

  
  


Vaguely remembering the interaction and ultimately  _ not  _ going swimming years before, he deduced this must be the pond. It looked incredibly sad with the reflection of gray clouds in the murky water and handful of dead-looking trees beside it. Just like every bright memory from his youth recently, it had been squashed and forgotten.

He missed the days when he wasn’t so caught up in all the small discrepancies and mistakes. He missed the days when he wasn’t always exhausted, not ever wondering if this was the morning where he wouldn’t be able to bully himself into taking the hardest first step of the day: getting out of bed. When he could fall asleep without a knot in his stomach every night, worrying if he should have gone about making those decisions differently. He wished he knew that as he grew older, the more control he yearned for in the parts of his life that he cared about most, the more of that control would be taken away from him and lost. Because, instead, he would spend the next years of his life picking up more baggage than anything else. 

_ It hurt to think about. _ But that’s why he avoided it for such an impractically long time, isn’t it?

His feet were lodged to the algid dirt, and a rebellious tear slid forcing its way down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another, until there was no use in wiping them away because this anguish wasn’t going to just cease to exist like so many other things in his life.

_ Certain things should just stay the way they are. _

* * *

  
Limp unkempt hair, dark shadows beneath even duller eyes, and gaunt twiglike limbs meagerly passing as human, was the picture he was greeted with in the mirror. A small part of him somewhere deep inside screamed frustratedly to see himself in such an alarming way, but he just didn’t care. 

He stepped into the hot water as it scorched his bony back but made no move to shift away from the burning, he would adjust soon enough. Plus, as an added bonus, it meant he could actually feel something other than nothing. 

Because _nothing_ hurts a lot like _something_ , but still not enough like _anything_. 

  
_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, this was a toughy for me To write because Many of these little drabbles are based of my own experiences. Not the PTSD, but the depression/anxiety. I’ve read so many stories where after the war, they write the characters as brushing everything off in a matter of months. It doesn’t work that way, ever. So my brain conjured up these little drabbles to create a series of days in the life of Harry Potter after the war.
> 
> \- I wrote the drabbles out of order to add to the time of this story as a whole. It feels jumbled, messy, and inconsistent, which is the same way Harry feels and how he is going about dealing with everything mentally.  
> \- I also purposefully kept names out as much as possible apart from “Harry” because I wanted the reader to feel as if they were in Harry’s shoes, living the same life. It also adds a layer of detachment to the other characters which is how Harry feels.
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are ALWAYS wanted, so don’t be afraid to say something. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> \- em


End file.
